


Stress Relief

by starscrearn



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Oral Sex, Shower Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 21:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15203849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starscrearn/pseuds/starscrearn
Summary: "So... I presume we've had a change in lunch plans?"Turns out there are some things even Rung can't handle without a little help.





	Stress Relief

The moment Rung emerged from recharge that morning he knew something was wrong. His plating felt off, ill-fitting, and his core temperature seemed degrees higher than normal parameters. His spark leapt around in its casing, scattering uncontrolled light all around the room, and when he reached for his glasses on the stand next to the berth, his hand twitched, a persistent tremble he couldn’t shake.

A quick self-diagnostic confirmed what he had to admit he already knew. His heat coding, which had lain dormant for nearly two millennia now, had abruptly reactivated, doubtless due to the recent stresses he’d been placing on himself. The stress had worn his systems down and now they would begin to request mass reboots that he would only be able to delay for so long. Something was going to have to give.

Rung knew roughly how much time he had before those requests started flooding in, requests for which the only real solution was an expulsion of charge. Several of them, in fact, spaced over several hours to several days. 

He could handle this on his own. He could. He’d done it before.

So, with a fringe effect of charge already beginning to build up in the struts around his spark casing, Rung padded across the room to his desk in search of the datapad reserved as his calendar and began to reschedule his appointments. A week of leave would be more than enough to allow the heat to come on, be dealt with, and pass-- and he could use the excess time to work, to catch up on the personal reports and filing he’d been letting slide. Despite there being a limited number of bots on board, it seemed like there was a new referral every week now, and Rung was almost amazed that not everyone was his patient. It certainly felt that way.

It took the psychiatrist almost three hours to receive confirmations of all reschedulings and by the time the final ping came in, the bulk of the heat coding had activated. Rung’s plating itched as charge built up under it, sparking here and there as he shifted. The speed with which it had crept up on him was almost alarming, and he briefly considered going to Ratchet, simply to ensure that things would remain safe.

The following heat rushing to his face had nothing to do with the coding. He wasn’t some-- some  _ newframe, _ overcome by their first heat, he was a millennia-old mech who knew how to handle it!

A millennia-old mech whose knees were starting to tremble with the effort of keeping him upright on his way from his desk back to his berth as the charge further invaded his struts, making it hard to move, to think, to concentrate on anything that wasn’t designed to satisfy the heat coding. Rung activated a dampening protocol in an attempt to regain control of his frame and straightened himself up. He wouldn’t be going anywhere except directly to his berth in this condition. 

By the time the realization hit that he should have called Ratchet, embarrassment be damned, it was too late.

The dampening protocol failed before he even made it back to the berth and the shock of it nearly dropped him to his knees with a low groan. Rung hauled himself up, plating clicking together and modesty panels instinctively retracting, and all but threw himself down, fans already running on high. He dragged himself to the top of the berth to flip over onto his back and prop himself up, fingers darting down to circle around his anterior node before he was fully aware of what he was doing. Rung jerked his hand away, facial plates burning in something close to shame. Granted, it  _ had _ been a very long time since his heat coding had been activated, but he didn’t remember it being this severe.

He attempted a second dampening protocol for some semblance of control. His systems overrode it before the command was fully formed. With a sigh and a hand clamped firmly over his mouth, Rung let his fingers drift downward between already trembling thighs. The second he found his anterior node his fans clicked back to full blast, practically whining under the strain. Dimly he knew it wasn’t a good sign. Rung withdrew his finger from his valve-- when had it found its way inside?-- and whimpered when he felt a bead of lubricant trace a path from his valve down his aft. His helm fell back as he squirmed away from the sensation and in short order a digit slipped back into his valve. Rung hissed out a vent as his fingers snagged almost painfully against the sensitive mesh of his valve coverings and the uncomfortable sensation made him pause and consider. In only a few minutes he’d been reduced to this, stuffing his fingers inside himself in a desperate attempt to relieve a bit of charge and actually  _ whining _ when he reached the length his hand would allow. The hot lick of mortified discomfort curling around his tank did more to diminish his charge than any protocol he had, but it still wasn’t enough.

Rung shuttered his optics tightly, did what he could to ignore the frantic whirling of his spark, and forced himself to press his thumb against his node. If he could get himself to overload once or twice, he might be able to keep a dampener in place-- not enough to counteract his heat entirely, that wouldn't be possible, but enough to remain in control instead of rutting wantonly against his own hand. Finger still tracing the sensors inside of him, he began to rub circles over his node, soft gasps and needy moans escaping his vocalizer with each pass. Close, he was so  _ close…  _

He warbled in overload, hand going tight against his valve like he was trying to force the charge out of his frame. Rung relaxed, withdrew lubricant-stained fingers--

And froze as charge crackled up to replace what he’d just lost. The influx recoiled on him, flooding inward with the lack of an external anchor. He whimpered, a peculiar mix of desire and abrupt fear. For a heat to come on this suddenly and this severely… 

He  _ really  _ should have called Ratchet while he still trusted himself to speak clearly. Rung was in the process of drafting a data packet for the medic that would hopefully explain the situation when a ping from his systems wiped it. Despite the heat coding, his frame felt cold; his spike housing had just attempted to retract, which was uncommon in the first wave of heat. Valve overloads were the typical method of charge expulsion; it was more efficient, and with a frame as slight at Rung’s, more predictable and generally safer in a heat. Hazy as he was, he understood the implications.

For the time being he managed to keep his spike housing closed as he tried to dump more charge from his frame, and hopefully by the time his systems pinged him to request a replacement for the fuel he’d already burned through he’d be able to walk again. Then he’d be in a better position to deal with the requests from his spike, and--

Rung’s planning was interrupted by a low moan and his hips pressing up off the berth into his hand. It was then that he realized he’d returned to his valve, snagging an internal sensor still primed from the first overload. The feedback they were providing was almost overwhelming as charge skittered back and forth between his fingers and his nodes. Rung whined desperately and began to press another finger past the rim of his valve. His calipers clutched eagerly at the intrusion, pulling it further in, even as the capacity sensors around the rim protested the treatment. Slowly, gently, he began to move, sliding his fingers past each other. He worried away at his lip, trying ineffectually to muffle himself, and took a moment to be grateful for the distance between his quarters and any other occupied room. 

It wasn’t long before Rung felt a tightness beginning to creep up his spinal struts, pulling his plating close to his protoform before overload forced it back out, charge scampering freely over his frame. He slumped fully against the berth, fingers lazily rubbing over his node, teasing out the last short bursts of charge. His spark beat against its chamber as it whirled frantically, warning him that the excess charge was getting to it. Rung let his optics offline and waited-- waited for the next batch of requests, waited for his spark and vents to settle. His charge slowly returned to tolerable levels-- high, but tolerable-- and while his struts were still weak, they seemed cooperative. His systems spat a batch of garbled alerts at him, unsure of what they wanted but sure they wanted it very badly, and the unrelenting onslaught made his processor ache. The clearest of the mess was a refuel request.

With a quiet groan, Rung swung his legs off the berth and staggered to his feet, shuddering as the sudden movement brought a gust of relatively cooler air over his still-exposed valve. He whined out some static as he felt a bead of lubricant slip free and roll lazily down the inside of his thigh. Unable to bring himself to look at the mess he’d made of the berth or himself, he started off for the little stash of energon he kept handy, cursing himself for forgetting it earlier. The distance between his berth and his desk now felt even greater than it had when the coding first activated.

As if spurred by the thought, the first wave of coding abruptly decided it hadn’t finished with him. The surge of arousal that hit him was so powerful it almost knocked him to the floor. He stumbled and nearly fell, clinging desperately to the chair in an attempt to keep himself upright. Rung plunged a hand between his thighs as his feet skidded out from under him and sent him to his knees. He nearly sobbed out a vent of hot air and pressed his chest to the seat of the chair for support as he traced over his valve again. A pair of fingers slipped inside more easily this time, seeking out sensor nodes that were starting to feel more abused than pleasantly overstimulated. The same system that was ultimately responsible for the the activation of his heat coding was beginning to fight against it, straining against its long-term dormancy. He brought himself to an unsatisfactory overload, still draped inelegantly over the chair, and pushed himself up onto one elbow. 

Rung withdrew his fingers, idly swiping his glossa over them to rid himself of the lubricant that clung to them, and reached out over the seat of the chair to drag the appropriate desk compartment open. He fished around for a moment and came up with a pair of cubes. Downing half of the first on the spot, Rung hauled himself up by the back of the chair and stumbled back across the room, clutching the cubes. He dropped them onto the table and sank down on the edge of the berth, bracing himself for the inevitable return of his charge. It began to creep back, though it was overshadowed by the tightness in his tank and the soreness in his array. The first wave of coding should have been satisfied, if not by the duration then certainly the quantity of overloads, but it had still not abated, prickling at his struts and warming his plating.

The psychiatrist reached for the cube. He could feel the struts in his back beginning to lock up in exhaustion and the cooler air stirred up by his movements did nothing to help. If he was lucky, the coding might allow him time enough for a brief recharge; it was designed to reset systems, not shut them down entirely, and the prospect of a little rest was infinitely preferable than trying to convince an uncooperative system to accept the necessary fuel. He abandoned the cube on the table, hauled himself back up onto the berth without bothering to replace his modesty panels, and settled in, absently rubbing away some of the mess adorning his thighs and array. Even brushing against his valve coverings, which were swollen from use, produced a sensation bordering on painful and his kept his touch light against himself. Under such careful care, the sensors reset almost immediately, coming back online and causing a small flow of fresh lubricant to trickle out over his fingers. Charge crackled back up with it. With a quiet groan, Rung let his helm fall back against the pillows and resigned himself to a lack of rest until his heat had passed.

Unwilling to try to coax another overload out of his already overstimulated valve, Rung turned his attentions to his spike, finally caving to the insistent pings the equipment had been sending him and allowing the housing to retract. It pressurized almost immediately, extending with the quiet click of aligning plating. Rung traced over the seams, protoform silky under his fingertips, and rubbed gently over the string of biolights along the underside. They flared to life, scattering glimmers of light over his thighs and glinting off the lubricants still staining his frame. Long unused sensors fluttered to full capacity, tensors along the base of his spike contracting and pushing the piece up against his hand. Rung tipped his head back and offlined his optics, mouth falling open. Soft moans flooded out of his vocalizer as he began to stroke, teasing against node clusters that felt almost  _ too _ sensitive.

With a quiet cry, Rung brought himself to overload, trying to ignore the creep of nausea curling ever more tightly around his tank and the stiffness pervading his joints as his plating rattled itself back into place. His hand dropped to rest against his thigh as his systems threatened to drop offline one by one and force him closer to uneasy recharge.

“So… I presume we’ve had a change in lunch plans?”

=========

After his arrival on the Lost Light, Megatron had grown to value punctuality and privacy almost above all else, especially after he started seeing the ship’s psychiatrist in a less than official capacity. He and Rung had spent enough time dancing around the issue, so when the courtship began in earnest, they had both worked themselves into a comfortable schedule of keeping very far out of the public eye. It was more difficult for Megatron, as both a physically imposing mech and as co-captain, to remain out of sight, but he was aided by the odd hours Rung kept and his own extensive knowledge of the ship’s shifts. 

It was that knowledge that had led them to plan something of a lunch date, as Rung had called it, so early in the day, the better to avoid the rush of bots that would swamp the ship at shift change. And when Rung wasn't on time, Megatron began to grow concerned. When ten minutes passed with still no sign of Rung, he was worried. The psychiatrist was  _ never _ this late without sending some kind of message. 

So Megatron left in search of him with a brief courtesy ping. Perhaps he’d merely gotten tied up with a patient.

It bounced back unread and unseen. Megatron sped up, drafted a full message, and sent it off. Rung occasionally disabled his alerts during appointments, but he never refused a message.

The message bounced. When Megatron reached the the psychiatrist’s office, it was at a pace just this side of running. The panel by the door indicated that the room was empty; he keyed it open to check anyway. Slowly the overhead lights came to full power, revealing a room that was very much deserted. With a harsh vent, Megatron turned on his heel and strode out. Rung’s habsuite wasn’t far from his office, isolated as it was from the rest of the ship. He sent another message that went unnoticed.

Even as it neared shift change, this part of the ship remained quiet, relatively untouch ed by the commotion. Megatron sent another ping and received the slight stirring of something approaching acknowledgement. The door, when he checked it, was unlocked, and he palmed it open. 

Rung’s name died on his glossa and for the first time in millennia, Megatron found himself speechless. The psychiatrist was…

Well, he looked well and truly debauched, to put it politely. Both his modesty plating and his spike housing were retracted and as he watched, the inner folds of the little mech’s valve spiralled down and constricted erratically, seeking an anchor. With a strangled sob, Rung dropped his head back. His body juddered in overload, knees twitching up towards the ceiling and heels scraping across the berth covers. His spike jerked in his slackened grip, spilling transfluid over his belly to mix with the lubricants smeared in various places across his frame. Megatron found himself noting that Rung’s spike matched the rest of him, slim and rather plain at first glance, with a row of biolights up the underside that matched the ones in his chest. He shook his helm, like he could somehow banish the sight. 

“So… I presume we’ve had a change in lunch plans?” Megatron heard himself say.

Rung jolted up and almost immediately fell back with a low groan as something audibly twinged. As Megatron watched, his spike retreated, collapsing back into its housing. He swallowed and looked away from the gentle pulsing of his courtmate’s valve. 

The old poet took another hesitant half-step into the room. “Rung, what ha-- should I call Ratchet?”

That prompted a reply. 

“No!” he yelped, lurching back up with slightly less vigor than before and swinging his legs over the edge of the berth so he remained upright. “No, I--” His optics shuttered tightly as some subroutine obviously pinged him. He clutched at the berth covers, bunching them under slender fingers.  _ “Oh, Primus… _ I-I’ll be fine.”

“What’s the matter?”

Rung was silent for a long moment. “It’s my, ah… it’s a heat,” he admitted softly.

Megatron nodded, considering. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I-I’ve been--” Rung winced and shifted. “--able to deal with it in the past--!” His words had a slight whine to them now; his vocalizer was clearly under strain. “A-and I thought-- mistakenly-- that I would be able to-- oh dear… to handle this one.”

He drifted a little closer. “How long has it been since the last?”

“Oh,  _ Primus, _ I don’t  _ know, _ perhaps a million years? Longer?”

Two strides took him to Rung’s side and a slight shift in weight brought him to one knee in front of him, gently coaxing him to release his death grip on the berth covers. “And you don’t want me to call Ratchet,” he confirmed. 

“There’s no need, it’ll pass…” His glossa flicked out over his lip and while his face was tangibly warm from the energon coursing through the inflamed lines beneath his plating, his optics were clear and surprisingly focused. “I-it’ll pass eventually, it always does.”

Megatron nodded. “And when did it start?”

“This morning. I-I must have forgotten to comm you--!” Rung’s voice hiked up as he shifted, accidentally dragging his exposed valve over the berth covers.

He gave the little mech’s hand a squeeze, pulling his attention back. “How severe are they?”

“Usually manageable, but-- this is… worse than usual. It’s been so long--”

“You don’t have to explain,” Megatron murmured. “May I… would you allow me to help?”

Rung  _ whined,  _ biting at his lip even as his hand curled tight around the co-captain’s fingers, tugging him closer. “Oh,  _ Primus…  _ y-you wouldn’t mind?”

He made a sound of quiet amusement, not quite a laugh. “Not at all. You look like you need an anchor, and I am more than happy to provide one.”

“That…  _ would _ help,” he admitted after an embarrassed pause.

Megatron pushed himself up and pressed a kiss to his helm before he rose, towering over him for a moment before sinking down onto the edge of the berth at his side. “I’d like to set you in my lap, if that’s alright with you, and see what we’re dealing with. It comes in distinct waves with small frames, correct?”

He nodded idly, steadying himself with a hand against Megatron’s chest plates as he pulled himself up. 

“Has the first wave ended?”

“A-almost, I think. It should have by now, but…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I was almost-- er, when you came in…” 

Megatron ran a hand up his chest, ghosting over his sparkglass and carefully flattening Rung against his larger frame, and gestured to his stained array. “May I touch you?”

Rung’s helm fell back with a muffled thump against his chest.  _ “Please.” _

His fingers slipped lower, brushing over his valve and gathering a thin coating of lubricant. “And remind me-- how long is the refractory period between waves?”

He vented and settled back, optics dropping offline. “A few hours at least, u-up to a day or two. They’re more unpredictable--!”

“With smaller frames,” Megatron finished calmly, making another pass over his array. His unoccupied hand brushed little circles against the psychiatrist’s spark casing, metal rasping against glass. Fingertips brushed just past the outer coverings of his valve and paused.

“May I?”

“Yes,” the little mech murmured, voice clouded with static. “Absolutely.”

“Tell me if this becomes too much and we’ll find another way.”

Slowly, carefully, he began to press in, one hand curling around Rung’s chest to support him as he worked a finger into the little mech’s valve, dragging as gently as he could over the sensors. Rung whimpered, clutching at Megatron’s chest with one hand and dropping the other to his wrist, fingers digging in at the edges of his plating, trying to speed his pace. 

“Rung, no,” Megatron warned. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

He spat out a bit of irritated static. “I’m not-- as fragile as I look. I can take it.”

“Rung--”

He pressed his hips forward, forcing Megatron’s finger deeper into his valve. “I said, I can take it.  _ Please. _ Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promised. 

He began to move again, each thrust putting him a little deeper in Rung’s valve. The calipers clutched at him, holding him there and almost refusing to let him pull back, trying to ground excess charge in the intrusion. With a last little nudge, Megatron brushed something that had Rung arching up against him with a moan that might have sounded pained were it not for the pleasure and desire filling every pulse of his field. 

“Alright?”

Rung took a moment to collect himself and nodded, antennae flicking erratically against Megatron’s chest.  _ “Very-- _ please, don’t stop.”

The big mech tipped his hand up, tugging at the rim of his valve and pressing against a node that had Rung nearly collapsing, quiet moans flooding out of his vocalizer. It felt as though every wire in his body had been wound far too tight. Equal measures of charge and fatigue raced through his frame, licking along his lines like liquid fire. Overload crackled through him moments later and he felt Megatron jerk under him as charge crackled from one frame to another. 

Rung dropped his head back, chest heaving as his fans and vents struggled to return him to a normal temperature range. As his calipers finally loosened, Megatron slipped his finger away, brushing excess lubricant off on his thigh.

“How are you feeling?”

Rung blinked wearily up at him. “Sore,” he admitted. “Exhausted. A little sick. But far less… overcharged.”

“Good.” He hunched over him and leaned in for a kiss; the little mech shifted forward and happily gave it.

“You know,” he murmured once Megatron straightened back up with the quiet click of realigning plating. “I think I--” He abruptly shook his head. “Oh, never mind.”

“What is it?”

Rung waved it away. “It’s nothing. It’s silly.”

The big mech’s hand returned to his chest and resumed its idle stroking over his sparkglass. “Why don’t you tell me anyway?”

After a minute he relented, though he still sounded unsure. “I was thinking that I could get used to you being… more affectionate. There’s nothing wrong with the way we are now, of course--”

“More affectionate, hm?” His unoccupied hand drifted down to Rung’s and gently folded around it, stilling his quivering fingers. “Like this?”

Rung let out a little squeak of surprise and his fans, which had finally slowed, jumped back to full power. He glanced down at himself with a quiet noise of embarrassment and rubbed at the mess adorning his thighs with little success.

Megatron chuckled. “Perhaps I could help you with that, too.”

“You don’t need to do that!” he rushed out. “I-I’m sure I can manage--”

He gave Rung’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Will you let me help?”

“You-- really don’t mind?”

“Of course not.” He stood, smoothly slipping a hand under Rung’s knees and shifting him, cradling him against his chest. “It might be tight fit, but I’m sure we’ll… manage.”

“M-Megatron, really!” Rung protested. “I can at least  _ walk.” _

“This is easier,” he replied. “Besides, I can feel your joints locking up. Not used to this kind of use?”

“Not used to this kind of  _ charge,”  _ he muttered after a moment.

“It should be over sooner now that you have a proper anchor,” Megatron assured him. “The initial recoil must have been painful.”

Rung shuddered, plating clicking gently against the frame that held him. “It certainly wasn’t pleasant.”

The old poet shifted him again, transferring him to one arm. Rung found himself tucked even more securely against the broad expanse of plating. Beneath it he could hear the internal mechanisms turning over, allowing Megatron to reach forward and fiddle with the taps until solvent drenched them both. And below all of that he could still hear the big mech’s sparkbeat, deep and low and perfectly in time with his own. The synchrony didn’t last long; the realization set his spark racing, and Rung clamped his thighs together as if he could somehow halt the flow of lubricant that had sprung up at the thought of such closeness.

Megatron set Rung on unsteady feet and the little mech staggered back against the wall. He swiftly pushed himself back up, but not before the old poet noticed.

“Tired?”

He nodded idly, trying to ignore the lubricant trickling down his thigh. 

He ran a hand up the short mech’s side until he found a point of support. “That’s not all it is though, is it?”

Rung shot him a chagrined look. “Er… perhaps not.”

Megatron almost smirked. “You can prop yourself on the wall. Let me help.”

He sank back with a groan, fans roaring once again as they tried to cool his overheated, flustered frame. Megatron knelt in front of him and wrapped a hand around his hip to steady him. He let himself slip down into the touch.

The big mech chuckled and leaned forward to press a kiss to the front of his pelvic plating. “I’d ask you to open up, but…”

The psychiatrist laughed and gave his shoulder a light push, barely enough for him to register the pressure. “That was awful.”

“Mm.” Megatron tipped his chin up and kissed at the outer layers of his valve. A moment later he shifted forward to mouth delicately over his exterior nodes. Rung let out a shaky sigh and ran a quivering hand over the side of the gray mech’s helm. Megatron caught his anterior node between his lips and suckled at it, prompting a quiet whine. 

He pulled back a moment later, but only far enough to speak. “Spread your legs for me?”

Rung shifted so quickly his heel nearly went skidding out from under him on the wet floor.

Megatron caught him easily, adjusting his grip on his waist. “Hold onto me, if you need to.”

His hands came up to rest on the big mech’s shoulders. One slipped down to tug at his collar fairing, pulling him closer. Megatron smiled against his valve and took the hint, flicking his glossa over its folds with almost agonizing slowness. Rung did his best to press into it but the firm hand at his hip kept him in place against the wall.

“Patience,” Megatron murmured. “The longer it builds, the more charge you’ll expel.”

“Haa… I know. But it’s not easy to--  _ ah!-- _ to not react.”

He hummed his acknowledgement and pressed in, nuzzling between his legs to the accompanying sounds of soft moans and sharp, short tugs at his helm as Rung’s fingers sporadically tightened. After a long moment of teasing, he flicked his glossa in, tracing around the first set of calipers. They spiraled down against the intrusion, desperately seeking an anchor. He gave it willingly.

His glossa nudged against the second set of calipers, and above him, Rung curled over him, struts creaking. The psychiatrist warbled out a few glyphs just past intelligibility, though they were undeniably pleased. The old poet reached up and traced down Rung’s wrist until he reached his hand and threaded their fingers together by the side of his neck. He gave his hand a light warning squeeze before he stretched, tapping against the last set of internal nodes he could.

Rung overloaded with a quiet, hoarse shout and his knees finally gave out. He slipped down the wall into Megatron’s gentle grip. The big mech scooped him up before he could hit the floor and nestled him against his chestplates. Rung, nearly offline, ran a weary hand over his arm and murmured his thanks.

Megatron turned, shifting his grip on the little mech so he had a free hand. “Think nothing of it.”

Rung reached up to brush a smear of lubricant off Megatron’s lip. “Rather hard not to.”

He made a noise deep in his chest, a rough approximation of a laugh. “Let’s get you cleaned up. How long do you think you can keep the coding at bay?”

He was quiet as he ran an internal systems check. “A while, I think. I can barely feel it now.”

“Has the first wave ended?"

“I  _ hope _ so,” Rung replied. “I wasn’t built for all of this.”

This time the laugh was a little closer to the surface and after a moment Rung joined him.

“Not quite how I imagined lunch going,” he muttered as Megatron located a cleaning cloth and went to work gently scrubbing away the mess.

“Mm, perhaps not. But it was not unenjoyable.”

Rung glanced up at him. “You aren’t just saying that, are you.” It was less a question and more a realization.

“Of course not.” He made a last pass and carefully clicked the little mech’s panels shut.

They lapse d into a comfortable silence as Megatron stepped out of the washracks, still cradling Rung, and set to drying him off. The little mech was tired enough that he didn’t protest.

Finally Megatron broke the silence. “Clean berth covers?”

“Mm… stored under the berth. I don’t mind getting them--”

A swift kiss to the side of his helm silenced him.

“And neither do I.”

Rung sank onto the edge of the berth when Megatron set him on his feet again, ready to move when necessary. “Really, I-- I can’t thank you enough for all of this--”

“You don’t need to.”

“It’s just-- I feel like I should be doing  _ something…”  _ he replied, rising when Megatron nudged against him with an armful of covers.

“Then you can rest and prepare for the next wave. I’m not looking for you to  _ repay _ me.”

“That’s good, I’m not sure I’d be able to manage it for a while.” It almost sounded like a proper joke.

Megatron shoved the stained covers aside and gestured to the berth. After a moment’s hesitation, Rung slipped in and settled back.

“Rest,” he urged. “I’ll be here for the next wave.”

“Thank you,” Rung murmured. He reached out, fingers glancing over Megatron’s wrist and tracing down until they found his hand. There he settled, slim hand nestling comfortable into the big mech’s palm.

Megatron settled back with a faint smile and commed Ultra Magnus to request a cover for his next shift.

**Author's Note:**

> i always said i wasn't gonna do this, and yet here we are. i, uh... really don't have an excuse for this, but if you made it this far, thanks for reading! hope it was worth it!


End file.
